


Victory March

by Janara



Series: Between the Lines [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Friendship (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Historical References, Introspection, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Open to Interpretation, ace friendly, exploration of headcanons?, extension of canon scenes, misuse of Milton, not sure either, what form their love & relationship will take is, what is this even about...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janara/pseuds/Janara
Summary: ~ Theirs was a love story written between the lines. ~Just some random glimpses - some peeks at a relationship building over 6000 years.6000 years of an angel and a demon getting to know each other and themselves.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Between the Lines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939081
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Victory March

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Pentatonix version of Hallelujah.
> 
> Sooo… When I sauntered head over heels into the GO fandom a while ago (just about a year late to join the party) I couldn't help myself but to have a go at the 6000 years of developing relationship thing, too.  
> Yes, there are already a lot of really, _really_ great fics like that out there and I'm not bringing anything new to the table – still, couldn't resist.
> 
> This is basically 15k of a self-indulgent writing exercise as I'm playing around with these two and working out my angels/demons - perception of emotions headcanon.
> 
> Note:  
> My knowledge of Good Omens is mostly based on the novel and the radio adaptation, sprinkled with whatever clips I've seen of the TV series plus fanon.  
> If there are any discrepancies in the scenes that are TV-only, that's why, and it probably also influences the characterisation.

* * *

  


_And love is not a victory march - it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_  
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah

  


* * *

  


They would not encounter each other often, in the beginning.  
After the walls had been destroyed and the Cherubs had left, Her creation ventured out into the world. Life spilled over barren landscapes, took flight into endless skies and unfurled deep in the oceans.  
And it was intoxicating.

They observed as it blossomed and grew and faded only to give ground for new cycles to start.  
They felt each other’s presence but were both too absorbed in watching and discovering and following the stray orders they received. An angel's silvery chime and a demon's fervent force were but one small fraction of Earth taking shape in front of their eyes.

They tried to find their places in this world as they studied the humans, these strange, fascinating creatures they were supposed to guide and guile towards their paths.  
And so they immersed themselves in this marvellous, captivating creation and learned.

  


* * *

  


He wondered if he might have been in love once.  
She had been fierce and daring, a burning flame not belonging to her time and he had wished the world had been different for her.  
She had asked him for men’s clothes so they might walk through life as equals and he had done all he could for her.  
But she had been mortal and with every false year of age he had put on his face he had felt the betrayal. 

And when the time came, he sat with her and wept. And she held his hand and thanked him for his loving support and confessed that sometimes, in the small hours of the night, she had wondered if he was really there. And with her last breath she hoped that the world might be different at some point. That people could live as they wished to.

He might have loved a human once - and it had taught him about inspiration and ardour and he would remember longing on behalf of someone else. And as he grieved, he tried not to think about whether there was one creature out there who he could truly be himself with.

  


***

  


He wondered if he might have been in love once.  
She had been searching and determined, eager to unravel the beauty of the world and he had wished for her to experience all there was.  
She had showed him kindness and challenged him to let go and he had gifted her all the knowledge he was able to grant.  
But she had been mortal and with every answer he had to withhold he had felt the betrayal. 

And when the time came, he held her in his arms and hid his eyes. And she brushed his cheek and thanked him for his passionate spirit and admitted that sometimes, when he had seemed to be so much more, she had longed to see all of him. And as she closed her eyes, she hoped for the world to grow kinder with years to come. That people would start caring.

He might have loved a human once - and it had taught him about compassion and sincerity and he would remember wishing on behalf of someone else. And as he mourned, he tried not to think about whether there was one creature out there who could truly understand him.

  


* * *

  


The first thing Aziraphale had noticed about Crowley was that he was striking.  
Of course, he had been a snake at the time. 

Standing on the wall high above his gate, he was looking out onto desolate sheets of sand while behind him beasts roared and birds sang of life. The upcoming wind carried the sweet fragrance of flowers and ripe fruit.  
His counterpart was approaching. He had felt their presence, of course, even if they had yet to meet. That this meeting would take place now of all times was unfortunate but it might provide a distraction at least. 

He noticed the serpent sliding up to him but kept his gaze on the endless space beyond the wall. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of black and red scales gleaming in the harsh sun. He had seen many splendid a creature in the garden but something in the startling coloration and the smooth, elegant movement made him draw a deep breath. It had him thinking of the ancient ones. Those angels he had seen only once or twice and he remembered how astounded he had been by their cold, abstract sort of beauty.  
Then the creature rose beside him, shape broadening and morphing into a manlike form, black wings unfolding. 

With no excuse left for pretending not to have noticed, the angel allowed himself a look. And then a second one.  
The same striking colours. Black on slightly tanned skin, a spill of vivid red hair and golden eyes. No, not gold, something warmer. Something he had no word for yet. 

Then the demon spoke and oh, he had been right, this would indeed be a distraction.  
Unfortunately the Serpent of Eden gave voice to the very things that had been churning deep within him. Thoughts he had tried to ignore, that he should not even be able to think. It was not for him to wonder about ineffability. 

And then the demon offered comfort and drew out laughter from him. He had never laughed before, had never felt inspired to - but looking into eyes sparkling with mirth, he could not help himself, could not suppress the feeling of something erupting from deep within him.  
Then he remembered who he was. What they were.

When rain began to fall, he raised a wing. It was done by instinct and he made a point of not asking himself why instinct would prompt him to offer shelter to his adversary. It was the thing to do. Show kindness to your enemy…  
They stood in companionable silence as the storm raged and watched the dunes where now and then flames flickered against a dark horizon.

  


* * *

  


The second time he met Crawly he had to steady himself as a flash of black and red appeared beside him seemingly out of nowhere. 

Thinking back to the building site of the Ark, he always thought he should remember emotions.  
His own low, murmuring unease when reflecting on what was about to happen. The wide, incredulous eyes – not cold gold, burning amber – when the demon heard about the flood. The strained, jittery gestures of the humans around them. And a low, disconcerting bitterness when once again his adversary said aloud things that should not even be thought.  
But that was what demons did, was it not? Bidding the virtuous to temptation.

  


* * *

  


His breath caught when he saw Crawly, no Crowley, at Golgotha.  
Wrapped in a veil and carrying a solemn expression, there was a heavy dimness about him that clashed with the gleaming eyes and vibrant hair. 

And Aziraphale felt shame that he even noticed, that even if only for an instant his thoughts had been distracted by strange, discordant beauty at a moment like this. That for a second he had contemplated the grave, cloaked figure and wondered if this was what he had looked like before his wings had burned.  
The demon offered only a few of his questions and sarcastic remarks as they watched. 

When the hammer struck the first nail Aziraphale winced and felt a slight movement behind him.  
"Be kind to each other,” he murmured and kept his eyes on the scene in front of him. He needed to watch this, could not allow himself to look away. He needed to remind himself that this, too, was ineffability. Or humanity. 

Bile rose into his mouth and he swallowed down the untowardly human reaction, acerbic and burning, wondering all the while if he had failed. Had it been for him to stop this? Stop them? Was it a test? Another punishment?  
And with freezing dread he realised that he was asking questions. Only to himself, only in his own head, but he was asking questions.

  


* * *

  


The first time Crowley noticed that there was something different about Aziraphale was in Rome.  
No, that was not entirely true. The first time he had realised that this angel was different was when meeting him on the eastern wall.

There had been Cherubs placed above every gate - too keep something in? To keep something out? He was not sure. Just as he was not sure whether he had done as intended. To cause discord, bring about chaos, that’s what he was here for. Free will for the mortals should be accomplishing that, he figured. And letting them know the difference between good and evil should sow free will.

Still, why would it be bad to give people knowledge?  
Tempting an angel, now that would have him in good standing. In case he had botched up the apple business, that would definitely make up for it. And so he slithered towards the wall closest to the tree.

Tempting this angel should be easy, he thought as he came up beside him and took on a form much better suited for conversation. He could feel the doubt and apprehension rolling off the Cherub, engulfing him and biting into his skin.  
Then the angel – Aziraphale – told him that he had given away his flaming sword. Had given it to the misbehaving humans. He told _him_. His opponent. And he could not help but stare, even his swift serpent’s tongue dumb for a moment. 

It would have been so easy… But before he realised, he had thrown the angel’s own words back at him and his voice had not sounded as sarcastic as he had intended. His response caused a jingle of relief trickling from the angel.  
And then they were talking and suddenly they were laughing until the angel remembered what he was.

As the storm drew nearer, the angel raised one of his wings to shield him from the rain.  
And, tempter that he was, he was confounded.

  


* * *

  


Tempting Aziraphale would have been even easier in Mesopotamia.  
Doubt and apprehension were cloaking the angel – a trace of dark musk tingling sweetly on the demon's tongue.  
It would have been so easy… He almost did it, unintentionally, when asking about the children. 

The realisation of what was about to happen had distracted him. He remembered some things about Heaven. Cold sterility. Impersonal justice. No forgiveness.  
But that was for them, for angels that had failed. What had all of creation done to deserve _this_?

No, he did not need to tempt the angel. Not like this. He could feel the seed of reflection taking root hidden deep within him. Maybe, at some point, he might provide sustenance to make it grow.  
If Aziraphale would not do so himself.

  


* * *

  


It might have taken a mere few of the right – or _wrong_ – words to tempt him at Golgotha.  
He tasted Aziraphale’s despair. Not at the humans. Certainly no at _Her_. No, despair at himself. The angel had indeed allowed doubt a first futile growth and that doubt was directed at himself.  
It would not have taken much – but not like this. Not here.

He heard a groan and looked up at the pain-stricken face above them and remembered its expression when he had seen it last.  
Gentle and kind and open.  
He had shown him all the kingdoms and wonders of the world and afterwards, as they bid farewell, Her son had kissed his forehead and smiled at him despite knowing who he was. What he was.  
And Crowley had not been angry. He should have been angry.

No, he decided, this was not the place. He had been chosen to walk the Earth because he could truly tempt. Because he could apply subtlety when it was the best choice. Because he saw when to feign decorum and when to break it.  
There was a time and a place for things and this was not it. Some moments called for regard. They deserved gravitas.

  


* * *

  


They met infrequently, during the first four millennia on this new world, but they always felt the other’s presence.  
Sometimes one of them arrived to the lingering memory of a blessing bestowed or a temptation accomplished.  
Sometimes they arrived at the same time. They crossed paths in streets and on squares and at harbours. They would nod at each other – or exchange a rare word – or ignore the other’s existence. Sometimes they would hide a smile. 

Their encounters were random, mere coincidences, except for those occurrences that summoned them both. Events of monumental significance that drew them in with a call they could not resist.  
An ark being built on windswept sand.  
Crosses being raised under a burning sun.  
Moments when they stood by each other and watched. And wondered. But those moments were rare. They were preordained. 

They never intended their meetings - up until Rome.  
Things would be different after Rome.

  


* * *

  


With a little swirl the disgusting house brown turned into a hopefully passable mulsum. He took a sip and frowned. A bit heavy on the honey. Glaring at the beverage he forced it to lose some of the excessive sweetness while adding more pepper.

It hadn’t been all too bad, his stint in Rome. A few whispered words had been enough for the now very much former emperor to completely lose control which caused the senate and praetorians to take the expected actions.  
The erasure of the whole of Caligula’s family had been a bit excessive, in his opinion, but not really surprising. 

For a brief moment he wondered if all of this was really in his lot's interest. ‘Mess around with the leading class of the empire,’ they had said. ‘Foment chaos, make him appear mad,’ they had ordered. And now Claudius had been proclaimed emperor and while a lot of people distrusted him, Crowley suspected a potentially capable ruler there.  
He just hoped it would not be him who would be blamed for Rome actually gaining an able emperor out of the whole mess he’d fostered. 

It was in this frame of mind when the angel, who he had met last not even a decade ago, was calling out to him, babbling some nonsense.  
Of course he was still a demon. That was the whole point. Demon with some pesky supervisors breathing down his neck. Last thing he needed was the opposition getting in the way. 

Suddenly Aziraphale was gushing over oysters and went as far as implying to _tempt_ him and he couldn’t quite stop his mouth from curling into a small grin.  
This was too precious. Which was probably why he followed the angel to Patronius.

  


***

  


"Oh, these are marvellous." Aziraphale sighed and licked his lips. He glanced at Crowley who appeared to be studying him intently – it was hard to say with that contraption he had put on his face. 

"You do seem to enjoy it, angel."

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and cast a glance around the room to see if anyone had picked up on the unusual moniker. Nobody was taking notice of the supernatural beings in their midst.

"And what do you make of them?" He nodded at the half-finished plate.

"Not too bad, not too bad," the demon waved an elegant hand over the leftovers. "Feel like taking these on?"

He eyed the plate. It was hardly polite to eat more than his share after being the one to extend the invitation, but Crowley did not make any move to finish his meal. And it would be too bad letting it go to waste –

"Go ahead," the demon said and pushed the plate closer. He felt that serpentine focus on him, heavy and searching. It was peculiarly unnerving, not seeing the expressive eyes. Made him feel like he was being looked at from afar, judged from a distance.  
It was an all too familiar feeling he did not care for much. 

He cleared his throat. "If you're sure?" 

"Be my guest," the demon gave a magnanimous bow but there was a smirk on his lips which, for some unfathomable reason, made the tension simmer down.

Aziraphale chuckled and raised another oyster to his lips. Ah, this really _was_ delicious! He closed his eyes to savour the lush taste and hummed with satisfaction.  
The hum was echoed, although containing something that sounded more like wonder than enjoyment. He opened his eyes and saw Crowley still looking at him, the expression on his face hinting at deep contemplation. 

"What?"

"Interesting, that."

"What is?" Aziraphale was eyeing the dish in front of him, wondering if there might be something wrong with it.

"Didn't know your lot could do that now."

"Do what?"

"Pleasure."

The rattle as the shell fell from his fingers was drowned in the noises of the restaurant. He goggled at the demon whose gaze seemed to have followed the rapid descent of the oyster before he went back to staring at him. Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale bowed down to pick up the shell and placed it neatly into a bowl then cleaned his fingers, scowling past Crowley.

"I have no idea what you're implying."

There was no answer, only a low rustle of fabric. He kept his eyes off the demon, scanning the tavern, taking in the humans who laughed and ate and drank in careless revelry. After a moment of silence that felt like an eternity he set his jaws firm and looked back at his adversary.

The demon's attention was still on him. He was slouched in his seat, his mouth curved into a slanted, half-hidden grin that reminded him of 'Funny if we both got it wrong…'.  
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in challenge. 

"Come now," Crowley nodded at the plate. "You've just admitted how much you like them."

"I'm merely appreciating the efforts humans put into their culinary endeavours."

Crowley raised an eyebrow right back at him. "And for how long have you been _appreciating_ human endeavours?"

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "Why should that be an issue to you?"

"No issue. None whatsoever." The demon leaned forward, propping his elbows on the low table and resting his chin on folded hands. The smile he gave him did not only border on impudence, it was strolling all across it.  
"Was just wondering, that's all. It's not really a thing angels usually do, enjoying the fruits of the creation."

He felt his frown deepened. There might be something to Crowley's insinuations, but still -  
"Well, I do not see the problem with consuming a light snack now and again."

"No problem at all," Crowley confirmed and Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously.

"In any case, it helps with relating to the humans. To understand what they enjoy and why."

"Absolutely," the demon smirked.

"Simply getting acquainted with their customs."

"There you are," Crowley pointed a finger at him and leaned in a bit further. "In case up and above ever wonders what you're up to, you got the explanation right there."

Aziraphale drew himself up. "There is no need for me to _lie_." He ignored the quirk of the demon's mouth and was preparing to remonstrate some more when Crowley leaned even closer.

"If it's any consolation, a few days ago I've… relocated a bunch of slaves who were far from being treated appreciatively by their familia."

Aziraphale stared at the demon who shrugged.

"They're at a villa outside the city now. Know the foreman. Decent bloke, very interesting ideas about social flexibility. Quite subtle but definitely having plans on how to mix things up, stir a bit of trouble – the guys downstairs approve of _that_."

"That is…" Aziraphale was still staring. He wasn't sure what to answer to that.

"Just saying. It's all in the presentation, how an action is interpreted." 

The demon tilted his head slightly and there was an expression on his face Aziraphale couldn't really deceiver - especially with the tinted glass obscuring his eyes. He swallowed and looked back at the plate in front of him.

"Well… I guess you have a point. In some way. Not that it is at all what I'm doing."

"'course not."

He glanced at Crowley who continued to study him with that same inscrutable expression.

"In any case. It would not do letting a valiant human effort go to waste," he said and reached for another oyster.  
Ah, whyever not, he thought as he noticed the little grin on Crowley's face, and he let the soft meat slide past his lips with a plainly indecent sound of delight.

A demon's amused chuckle should not make him feel victorious. Nor bring him satisfaction. And it most definitely did not.

  


* * *

  


Aziraphale stood on the Milvian Bridge as Clovis was baptised up in the north, in the Frankish kingdom, and yet another new era began.  
The Western Empire had been coming to an end and the Four were too present, too close to each other. It worried him.

He tracked down Crowley at a meagre hamlet, a mere shade of the great colonia it once had been, and asked him if he had heard from his side, if it was time already, but the demon just shook his head.

No, this was not Hell's doing. Nor was it Heaven's, Aziraphale had made sure of that. Though not instigated by them, Sandalphon had thought it a prime opportunity for winning people over to their side. Telling them that things would get better if they followed Her word and Gabriel had been more than pleased with that suggestion, of course.

They didn't understand. They weren't living here, watching people being plagued by sickness and hunger and endless skirmishes. They didn't see all the death, not up close.  
It would be different if they were here, experiencing it, he thought. He wanted to believe.

Crowley understood. Sitting by the fireplace, heating up some honeyed beer and handing him a goblet, he understood. And looking around, at the tired humans that were dwelling in the last remnants of what once had been a flourishing city, he assured him that these were not the end times yet.  
Aziraphale wasn't sure how comforting it really was. He felt tired.

But humans were nothing but resilient and so he watched as they took the ruins and built something new.  
Like after the garden.  
Like after the flood.

He wondered if it was time to leave the continent and go to the island. See how Britannia had been faring.

  


* * *

  


West Essex was damp. Crowley did not like damp. 

The encounter had been rather interesting though. Four and a half millennia it had taken for him to actually plant a thought in the angel's mind. And sure, he had resisted, but so did many at first.  
It was ironic, really. All he had intended in the beginning had been to tempt the angel, but it had never been necessary. It had always been much more interesting letting things run their course.  
But this time – this time he had a point. Their positions in this world were plainly ridiculous.

Yes, he had a point and he would go on making it. Not aggressively, that would not work well on the angel. Just a word here, a hint there. Enough for keeping the thought fresh, let it simmer in the background of that wilful mind.  
Aziraphale would see in the end, he was sure of that. It might take him another thousand years but he would see. The angel was smart - and not blind. It might even cause him troubles with his higher ups at some point but that was not Crowley's problem. It really wasn't. 

Still, he found it interesting that the last few times they had met it had always been Aziraphale walking up to him. Although today had been a coincidence, neither of them really expecting the other to be here.  
It had taken him by surprise. They sensed each other after all, but the awareness of the angel's presence had developed more and more into a soft hum. A low, unobtrusive melody playing in the background, not really noticed consciously unless being paid attention to. He had not registered the angel approaching until he had stood right in front of him and judging from Aziraphale's reaction and the sudden brush of surprise, neither had the angel.

Interesting. Yes, this was definitely shaping up to be rather interesting.  
Aziraphale's righteous indignation at his suggestion did not bother him all too much. He smiled at the memory of it, the memory of challenge.

  


* * *

  


A few centuries later, he found the angel more distraught than he had seen him in a very long time. Huddled in a corner of a murky tavern, Aziraphale was the picture of gloom.

They had met randomly ever since Essex and he had never forced his little idea. Patience was not in his nature but he knew when to pace himself. It would not do to push the angel. They had exchanged words and he had made sure to point out the obvious fact of them balancing each other out. Aziraphale had ignored it and he knew it would not help to prod persistently. 

But here he sat now at this dark table, clearly in great turmoil, and Crowley wondered.  
He swallowed down the heavy, tangy taste of dejection, shook its shivering touch off his back as he strode over and let himself fall onto the rickety chair opposite the angel.  
Aziraphale looked up and – oh – he had never seen those eyes this dim. He stared back at the angel, waiting for him to say something. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath and leaned against the grimy wall, ignoring what it would do to his fine cloak. 

"I'm to travel back to the continent."

That was not unusual in itself. They had to continuously travel all over the blessed globe.  
"Where to?"

"Scandinavia."

Crowley furrowed his brow. 

"I'm to inspire Her word to be spread. That it shall be brought to the people of the North. By any means necessary."

Crowley began to understand. He leaned back as well, mirroring the angel's posture, and observed him. Aziraphale heaved a sigh.

"It's Saxony all over again."

"Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae," Crowley muttered and Aziraphale looked up, eyes wide.

"That wasn't _you_ , was it?"

"Hardly," Crowley gave him a wry smile. "Although I wouldn't be surprised if my side came up with something like that… _if any one of the race of the Saxons hereafter concealed among them shall have wished to hide themselves unbaptized, and shall have scorned to come to baptism and shall have wished to remain a pagan, let them be punished by death_ ," he drawled and Aziraphale looked wretched. 

"No." The angel shook his head. "I would have known had it been you." Crowley wasn't sure what to make of that but Aziraphale continued before he could respond. "It was the idea of the humans. For a while I thought my side had influenced them without my knowledge, but it was all them. Over four thousand dead in the excuse of Her name and then that decree on top of it –" he looked up and something was blazing in the ethereal eyes. "And now they want me to _inspire_ that!"

Crowley studied the angel, took in the hopelessness hidden behind the mask Aziraphale had put on his face. He sensed the emotions rolling off of him and for the first time in four thousand years, he shielded himself. He did not want the luxuriant taste of desolation on his tongue, did not want to feel it sliding up his spine like cool silk, filling his nose, shimmering along the border of his vision. He did not want it drawing him in, whispering to him about how easy it would be to tempt, to lead astray. This was not what this was about.  
He took a deep breath and pushed it away, cut off its hold over him, and looked at the angel with clear eyes.

"I'm doing it."

"What?" Aziraphale blinked, clearly lost in thought.

"Have to go to Scandinavia, too."

That earned him a frown. "What for?"

"Tempting a clergyman to accept murder to further his mission." He couldn't help the wry curl to his lips.  
Aziraphale gaped at him.

"But that’s…"

"The exact same job."

They stared at each other for a long moment and Crowley was almost tempted himself. Tempted to lower his shield again, to sense what was going on behind the blank look of the angel. He cleared his throat.  
"You won't have to do yours. I'll do both."

"But I don't understand…"

Aziraphale sounded so lost and he could relate. He did not understand either. He did not understand why he wanted to spare the angel. Why he would be willing to fulfil both assignments without any further agreement. Without harping back to the offer made five hundred years ago.

"Just let me do this. No use in both of us bothering with the same thing."

"But why would they –" Aziraphale stared at him and Crowley sighed.

"I told you, angel. They don't care. Your lot hears 'followers of God's word' and that's that. Mine get numbers of death and suffering and it's all they see. They _don't care_."

He bit his tongue. He did _not_ intend to goad Aziraphale today. The angel looked at him, something more even and serene back in his gaze.

"I know. I know they don't really understand. They don't see that many of those who are spreading the Almighty's word would never be welcomed by Her. That a lot of them are claimed by your side. If they would try to understand…"

Crowley shrugged. "All they see is words and numbers," he repeated. It was so hard not to take this any further, not to say more. He had said enough already. 

"Still, we can't." Aziraphale straightened up, the familiar poise easing back into his posture. "If they ever find out…"

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and got an unimpressed glare in return. It was refreshing to see some of the angel's pluck restored.

"Even if you're right and they only pay attention to results, what if they ever _did_ find out?"

Oh, this sounded promising…  
"There is no reason why they should. But if you do want to go to Scandinavia, be my guest." He performed an exaggerated shrug and revelled in the grimace it got him.

"It's just…" Aziraphale's fingers danced across the goblet in front of him. "It hardly seems fair, does it?" He glanced at him but Crowley stayed silent, waiting for the angel to continue.

"If you do this for me, I'm in your debt. I'd rather not be in your debt." Aziraphale scowled at his drink. "I'm pretty sure it's not a good idea to be in debt to a demon."

A rough laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Aziraphale looked up, somewhat confused, and Crowley leaned towards him. He placed his elbows on the grubby table between them to rest his chin on folded hands.

"Let me do this," he said with as much sincerity as could pour into the words. With as much honesty as Aziraphale would be ready to accept. 

He still was not sure why it mattered to him. Why he wanted to spare the angel. But then again, it was more along his line of work. He was used to it. He was used to starting wars, to leading people to ruin. It was artless and dull and he avoided it whenever possible in favour of something more crafty, more entertaining - but sometimes his instructions were too clear cut to be skirted around. He could disassociate. But for some inconceivable reason he did not want Aziraphale needing to do just that.  
Angels, as a rule, were cold. He did not want this one to succumb to the rule. Not more than he already had to.

"Still…"Aziraphale shifted on his chair before returning to his line of reasoning. "Either we do this properly or not at all."

Crowley hummed.  
"Well, if you insist. There is something you could do for me. It's scheduled for next month."

"Yes?" Aziraphale was visibly steeling himself, drawing up even straighter and folding those dainty hands in his lap, face full of earnest determination as he prepared himself for whatever wile he would have to commit.  
Crowley suppressed a smile.

"You see, there is this young lady in Gŵyr."

"Yes?" Aziraphale repeated nervously.

"She is promised to a very influential lord, bringing with her a hefty dowry which would enable him to broaden his influence and – pacify - the surrounding lands."

"Pacify?"

Aziraphale looked sceptical and Crowley flashed him a dry grin, confirming the conclusion the angel had drawn from what 'pacify' would entail.

"So," Aziraphale swallowed, "what am I supposed to do?"

"Tempt the young lady to abscond with the lord's lovely son. Shouldn't be too hard, they're already thinking of it." He grinned widely.

Aziraphale blinked. Opened his mouth. Then blinked again.  
"You must be joking."

"I swear on whatever you like that's what I'm supposed to do. Can show you the assignment, if you don't believe me."

Aziraphale stared and when he spoke it sounded as if he was talking in his sleep. "So, if my side would ever ask…"

"You were only helping a young couple so very much in love." Crowley placed a hand over his mortal heart. "Terribly sentimental."

Aziraphale snorted and Crowley could not stop an honest smile from creeping unto his mouth. 

"So, what's in it for your side?" The angel leaned towards him. Just a little more relaxed. Just a bit more back to his usual radiance. 

"The ruin of the nasty old bugger and in consequence some decades more of minor skirmishes. Instead of the total subjugation of his enemies. The cumulative death toll will be about the same. They really didn't do the math." Or had seen past the word 'pacify', Crowley thought. Not like the angel. He had realised it right away.

Aziraphale straightened up again, a pensive look on his face. "So, in the big picture, not much of a difference."

"Except for the young couple, obviously."

The angel hummed and took a sip of his drink. "But there will still be battles and death."

"There will be. One way or another." Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale sighed and stared past him. "All that free will they acquired - and yet they are so intent on taking it away from each other." 

There really was nothing to say to that. No use in admitting that he had been thinking the same thing. Sometimes it made him angry. _They_ did not have free will, the two of them. Bound by what they were sent here to do. But the humans… That had been the whole point. Free will. 

"You're letting me off easy." Aziraphale's low murmur interrupted his contemplation. He looked up and tilted his head. Aziraphale was staring back at him, right at his eyes, and he wondered if he could see past the tinted glass.

"You could have given me something else. This assignment. You're letting me off easy."

He shrugged excessively. "Problem?"

"No –" Aziraphale frowned, glanced away for a moment before looking back at him, a heavy seriousness on his face. "Thank you."

"Don't say that." The words were out of his mouth before he even knew. Things like 'thank you' were not supposed to come into this. "It's a trade-off, that's all."

"Still, I'm very grateful. Please know that." Aziraphale replied earnestly. And then he smiled at him. Widely and warmly.

  


***

  


He travelled to Gŵyr a few days later, intent on being properly prepared.  
The morning after their talk he had stood at the dock and watched as Crowley had sailed off to Scandinavia and with a tight feeling in his chest, he told himself that it would be alright. That they would not find out. That the demon had as much to lose as himself. That he would not risk his whole existence for a lark…  
Unease had driven him to the west earlier than necessary. He needed something to focus on.

The local unrest had resulted in a shortage of workforce and, as so often in times like these, women were stepping in, taking over to keep their families surviving. Therefore it came as no surprise that the lord's household was severely understaffed and the arrival of Sister Francesca was welcomed warmly. She would be just the right person to prepare the bride to be for the rapidly approaching nuptials.

How did the demon do it, Aziraphale wondered as he held young Elen close, his hand gently brushing down her quivering back.  
For the first time in what felt like decades he had lowered his guard, allowing all the pain and terror of the young woman to take hold of him, flooding him, filling him until he felt he could not breathe anymore.  
How did he do it?

Demons do not feel emotions - that's what they were told in Heaven. They lost the capacity for it when they fell, becoming nothing but empty vessels for everything low and sordid and unclean. Every sin was coursing through them without ever touching them, because there was nothing left to touch. No soul. No spirit. No grace.

He had not thought about it much, back then. When surrounded by Heaven's brilliance, it seemed comprehensible. And it had not been for him to contemplate the fate of demons, not until he would be put to battle against them. No, not even then. It had not been for him to contemplate anything.

Then he had been placed onto a wall and met one of them.  
Then he had been made to watch over humanity and had shared the task with one of them.  
And he had realized that they had been wrong, because Crowley felt emotions. He had suspected it in the Garden, he had been sure since Mesopotamia.  
So, either Heaven had not shared their whole knowledge or they had sorely misunderstood something.

Because Crowley _felt_ and it made him wonder how he could stand it. This overwhelming rush when being close to humans, mouthing the words they wanted to hear, breathing life into their hidden wishes, telling them to follow their deepest, darkest desires even though it might be their undoing. To be surrounded by their fear and despair and anguish, how could he stand it…

He drew the shaking body closer, allowing young Elen's hands to clutch at him, her arms circling his hips while she was pressing her wet face into his soft bosom.  
And as she wept against him, soaking his immaculate scapular, he brushed softly through her hair and whispered into her ear.

  


*

  


They did it in the end.  
One morning as dawn arrived, a mere two days before the wedding was meant to take place, they rode off.

Aziraphale stood and watched them leave, wondering if they would survive this break from their families and their lands. From safety and all they possessed and knew.  
Would they have survived had they stayed and followed the life their elders had meant for them? Would they have died during the war that would have come?

It was not in his powers to see the future and most of the time he was grateful for it. With a shaky breath he sighed a small blessing into the chilly morning air - it was all he could do to raise their odds.  
They had chosen their path, how to live their lives. At least they were together, for however long that might last. Fingers playing distractedly with his cincture, he watched them vanish into the mist, young Elen turning around and raising her hand at him in farewell.

He watched them leave together, deserting everything that had held them down and bound them and might have kept them save - and, inexplicably, he thought of Crowley.

  


* * *

  


They didn't talk about it.  
They did not talk about how a proposal had turned into trades which flourished into what one of them would name the Arrangement.  
They met and shared assignments and, sometimes, provided suggestions on how to best accomplish them.  
They never talked about what it meant for them.

If a demon would in the rare instances he longed for quietude, for something to give rest to his ever-churning and probing mind, find it in the clarity of simple tasks that drained his powers almost completely and left him exhausted and depleted, then he would never mentioned it.

If an angel at odd moments when he wished to feel not pure heavenly love but something else, when he ached for a rawness buried between crushing despair and burning longing, could allow himself to drown in an overpowering flood until he felt truly alive, then he would never admit to it.

They did not talk about these things.  
If, as centuries passed by, the meaning of meetings shifted, they did not talk about it.  
And if it had come to their awareness that the other could perform the required tasks without help, that debriefings had become unnecessary, that only the smallest amount of their shared time in taverns and gardens and at social gatherings was spent on discussing assignments – they most definitely did not talk about that.

  


* * *

  


As the 18th century turned into the 19th, Aziraphale opened his bookshop.

They had gone for crêpes after leaving the Bastille and Aziraphale had been reminded of that evening in Rome long ago.  
Crowley had been watching him as he savoured every bite - and he was sure to savour it after the whole trouble it had cost him - in quiet contemplation. Sometimes Aziraphale wished he could read minds. Or at least one specific mind. Those blasted dark glasses did not help either.

The Reign of Terror and the years leading up to it had been a strenuous time for both of them. Thinking back to it later, neither of them would be sure which of their influences the humans had taken to and to what extent. It all had become rather muddled and once again the demon said to the angel that it did not matter. They did not matter.  
He had not needed to be told. As much as he still loved Her creation, some things he did not need to be told anymore. 

He had left France soon after they had gone their separate ways. Presumably Crowley had come back to Britain as well but Aziraphale had not seen him since that day in Paris.  
The demon might wish for some rest just as much as he did himself.

Looking at his books fondly, Aziraphale wondered about what ways his counterpart might have found to recuperate. He realised he did not know. Almost six millennia and still so many things he did not know…  
His fingers brushed over the worn spines of old tomes and he took a deep breath, filling the lungs of his mortal body with the comforting fragrance of leather and parchment and ink, relishing the tickling sensation of dust in the air.

When would he see Crowley again? He did not expect their sides to deliver new assignments very soon. It usually took them a while after times of unrest, both Heaven and Hell too occupied with appraising the influx of new souls. There was a little pang there. He could not really place it. Possibly the recollection of the pointless loss of lives during the last decade. 

He wished he could have done something to prevent it, or at least to lessen it. He thought he had tried but now he was not sure anymore.  
With an incongruous feeling he wondered how it would be if Crowley were here, if he could talk to him about it. About France and Scandinavia and Rome. About anything, really.  
He sighed and thought of free will.

  


* * *

  


It was two years prior to Crowley asking for holy water that he would meet Aziraphale in Sevilla.  
After Paris, he had gone to sleep, had been sleeping for sixty years – the few days in 1832 notwithstanding - and when he finally woke again, he felt the urge for a change of air. 

Southern Europe might be nice. He had a hankering for the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms and cloves. Spain, perhaps. It had been a while since he'd been in Spain and it would be an interesting time to travel there. Maybe go as far as all the way to the South. The thought of mingling with the devout masses amused him.

It wasn't surprising to find the angel in Andalusia during a Semana Santa1.  
He had felt him right after his arrival. Strolling across the Plaza de San Francisco, there was that old, familiar presence which would settle across his shoulders like a heavy cloak. He smiled and decided he would be seeking him out later, when the processions were due. 

In the early hours of Good Friday he took to the streets for La Madrugá with the rest of the city. It wasn't easy, getting to the angel. Shoving through the masses of humans and attempting to block out the sensations exuding from them, he homed in on Aziraphale's twinkling chime until he caught up with him at a street corner. The angel gave a delightful little start when he snuck up behind him, angling himself a little so he would be standing half to his side. They didn't speak but Aziraphale glanced at him and gave him a little nod. There was an amiable smile on his lips. 

Crowed in amongst pressing bodies, they were watching as another colourful paso was carried by. The costaleros stopped under an iron wrought balcony and after a moment of deafening silence, a song tore through the still air with a long drawn, painful wail that sent a shiver down his spine.  
He sensed it resonating in the humans surrounding them, tasted the answering gush of cloying pain and bitter ecstasy and when he turned his head to look at Aziraphale, he could see torchlight dancing across the angel's tearstained face.

  


*

  


A few nights later he took the angel to a café cantante.  
"There won't be any saetas there," he had said and Aziraphale had smiled and tilted his head and answered that it would be just as well. That he had never been to such an _establishment_ before and was curious.

They sat at a small, wobbly table in a darkened corner, plates with cheese and jamón and olives in front of them and each a glass of sherry in their hand.  
Aziraphale's gaze was glued on the stage in rapture. He wiggled at the joyous tunes and grinned at some of the raunchier dances and when, during a break as a new group was setting up, he turned towards Crowley his eyes were shining with a brilliant gleam.

"Oh, this is wonderful," he breathed.

Crowley hummed, his mouth curving into a small grin behind his drink. It made the angel narrow his eyes.

"What? Don't tell me you're here to spoil it?"

He took a gratuitous mouthful of his sherry before answering.  
"Nope. Might even have had a hand in this." He waved at the establishment and watched Aziraphale’s expression turning speculative.

"Hardly a demonic thing to do."

"You think?" He tilted his head, studying the angel. "A place to celebrate pain and sorrow and loss – as well as the pleasures of life. You've _seen_ some of the moves." He grinned wickedly but Aziraphale only rolled his eyes.

"Nothing wrong with offering humans a place to celebrate the full scope of their emotions, is there? And they do deserve a little joy now and again." The angel sipped his sherry studiously.

"Mm, not disagreeing with you about that." He raised his glass at him. "However, a place like this, just you wait. I give them a few decades at most till they managed to commercialise the whole thing. Soon this will be all polished and sparkly and milling out money."

There was something so crestfallen in the angel's features that Crowley almost felt like he should be apologising. And he had not even done anything wrong this time. Aziraphale seemed on the verge of responding but then a sombre tune filled the room and they looked back towards the stage. 

They watched in calm silence for a while when, all of a sudden, he felt Aziraphale holding his breath and something was sidling up towards him. Something he could not really grasp. Something sharp and itching that made his skin feel too tight. Then his mind caught up with the words of the song. Words drawn from a hoarse throat and tasting of blood.

_Si acaso la necesito  
el agua me niegue los mares  
si acaso la necesito  
el cielo me desampare  
y caigan las plagas de Egipto  
sobre mí, si te olvidare_ *

He watched Aziraphale who was staring at the stage, following every movement of the dancer, eyes glazed over as if he was to drown in the sorrowful guitar and the wailing voice.  
And then, as the song took on a lighter note and the dancer threw in some rather cheeky movements, his face just _lit up_ and Crowley could feel the joy hitting him like a crashing wave.  
It took his breath away.

And he decided right then and there, staring at an angel's glowing face, that he would find a way to protect himself.  
To protect this.

  


* * *

  


For the first time in his very long existence, he slammed a door.  
The bang resonated through the crammed room in a way that should not be possible but was oddly satisfying.  
With a somewhat guilty expression he turned around and brushed his fingers over the door, dispelling any damage he might have caused his beloved bookshop. It was not the innocent building's fault, after all. 

He took off his hat and coat with terse movements that felt wrong on his limbs. For a wild moment he was struck with the uncharacteristic impulse to just toss them to the floor.  
This was getting ridiculous!  
He closed his eyes, took a soothing breath, and arranged his garments neatly on the cloak stand before speaking a small miracle. Earl Grey should do nicely.

How dare he!

He took a sip of tea and grimaced at its bitter taste.

How _dare_ he…

His fingertips were still prickling, a stinging reminder of the flame he had conjured up to ignite that damnable piece of paper.  
For a moment he considered crushing the cup in his hand and will himself some cocoa but then discarded the idea and headed towards the kitchenette. Better to do it the human way. He did not need another drink spoilt by leftover tension influencing his miracles.

With a sigh he sunk into his favourite armchair. Inhaling deeply, savouring the scent of coca and brandy, he tried to relax. His gaze fell onto the sofa.  
Last night Crowley had been sitting there. After dinner they had come to the bookshop to exchange notes about the latest blessings and temptations, both being required to send a report to their respective sides. As the evening progressed and the papers had been put aside, they had shared a rather lovely bottle of sherry. 

Something had changed then. Crowley was normally an amusing drunk and both of them enjoyed the utter nonsense their alcoholic binges usually dissolved into. But that night –  
The demon had taken one sip of his drink and then stared at the amber liquid with eyes that mirrored its warm sheen. But there had been something in his gaze that he had never seen before.

Aziraphale thought he might have asked him then, what the matter was… But he had been rather drunk, so he was not completely sure whether that had actually happened or he had just wished to do so.  
He remembered the demon staring at him, eyes wide and empty and glowing.

Had he asked what was wrong? He was certain he had wanted to, had wanted it with a deeply unsettling urge – and for the first time in millennia he had been tempted to lower his guard towards Crowley, to still this gnawing need, this craving to know what the demon was feeling. Know it all the way down to his core.  
But he had not dared. If only he had dared.

_Holy water_. Two words carved behind his eyelids, seared into his mind. He saw them burning in his vision whenever he closed his eyes.  
Why had he not asked!

He jumped up. He _had_ to talk to Crowley, had to ask what this was all about.  
With trembling hands he reached for his coat and hat. How he got to the front door, he could not remember, nor his way through the misty London streets. It was like stepping out of a haze when he entered the magnificent Mayfair building. 

There was no answer when he knocked at Crowley's door. He waited a moment, not sure if he could dare – but he needed to know. The door unlocked with a snap of his fingers and he entered.  
The demon wasn't there. The flat was empty save for a splendour of verdant plants which were trembling in the dark.

  


* * *

  


It would take Aziraphale another century to realise that however much he wished, he would not be able to keep holy water out of Crowley's hands.

He stared at the tartan flask and tried his best to swallow down his nerves. The thought of handing this over made him sick in a way an ethereal being should not be able to. He forced a breath of air into resisting lungs and tried to calm his unwarranted heart. 

He knew Crowley. Once the demon was set on something – _really_ set on something -, he would not give up. And this particular idea had been occupying that ridiculous, stubborn mind for quite some time.  
No, he would not give up.  
Out of all possible scenarios, this was the safest.

He should ask what exactly Crowley intended to do with this, but somehow he did not dare.  
They were finally meeting again - ever since that day. The day of a crumbled church, a bag of books and a demon driving him home, chattering as if nothing had happened. As if they had not parted with angry words eighty years prior.

He wondered where Crowley had been, what he had been up to.  
He had felt no demonic influence the whole time after their separation in St. James Park. Still, he could not ask. Not even then. Not even after seeing the demon walking over consecrated ground for him. Not even after being handed his beloved books. He had just sat in the Bentley, quiet and breathless, his eyes fixed on the bag on his knees while around them London was put to destruction.

Oh, he had understood what had been said. Had heard the silent 'I'm handing this over to you now'.  
He had known what it all meant. The church. The books. Of course he knew. Had known for quite a while, even though the brash openness of the gesture after eighty years of silence had caught him off guard. Had made him realise how deep this really went. How much he had allowed himself to…  
But it could not be. They could not. It was too dangerous, it exceeded even the risk of the Arrangement. Exceeded it by far. Too far.  
And so the only things he had allowed himself to offer that night were companionable drinks and a soothing balm for a demon's ruined feet.

They took up their acquaintance again, their companionship, but as during all the centuries before they did not talk about it.  
They had time after all, Aziraphale thought, time to figure things out. If there would ever be a way to figure things out. He could not see how – but he did not need to. Not right now. Not right away. Not for a while.  
No matter what else might come their way, they had time.

Sometimes, years later, when time was seeping mercilessly through their hands, when it was running out for all of them, he looked back on that. Remembered that time, which now felt like flames and ruin and ashes, had once meant hope to him. The one thing he thought he would have enough of.

  


* * *

  


_'I forgive you –'_

His hands clenched around the steering wheel as he swerved through the vicious London traffic. 

_I forgive you…_ Trust Aziraphale to utterly miss the point.

Unforgivable. It wasn't about forgiveness. He didn't want forgiveness. He didn't _need_ forgiveness.  
Not from Aziraphale and certainly not from anyone else. Definitely not from Heaven. Not even from _Her_.  
If Aziraphale must say it to feel better, fine. Whatever. But it wasn't about forgiveness. It wasn't about being unforgivable.

It was about acceptance. 

He didn't mind being a demon. Sure, his life would improve tremendously without Hell's infernal bullshit, but other than that, he really did not mind. It suited him. He had accepted what he was a long time ago and at some point, Aziraphale would come to do the same. Eventually the angel would learn to accept himself.

In those moments when he tried at being honest with himself, Crowley knew that they were both equally good and bad at acceptance – he himself having come to terms with who he was while Aziraphale continued to struggle with what it meant to be himself and an angel. 

But then again, the angel did see the bigger pictures, didn't he? And Crowley had to admit that when it came to that, Aziraphale was miles ahead of him.  
He still struggled, chased, asked questions, even when long past the point of it being sensible.  
Aziraphale could take a step back, look at something with cold detachment and accept the reality of it – although the conclusions he drew from those observations did not always result in appliable solutions.  
The Almighty would _not_ fix this.  
Acceptance did not need to mean compliance. He just hoped Aziraphale would realise it in time.

Taking a deep breath, he forced down the frantic anger burning inside of him.  
Why could he not see?  
But he could not push it. He had known for centuries that there was no use in pushing Aziraphale. The beauty of that particular angel lay in him realising the really important things all on his own. It might take him a few millennia, but he did get there in the end.  
Crowley had always been in favour of people realising the important things on their own.

Aziraphale would calm down and they would find a solution. They _had_ to. And once all of this was behind them, the angel could think, would realise. 

One day Aziraphale would accept. Accept that they were more than mere personas manoeuvred by opposite sides. He would come to understand that they were individuals and they had every right to be.  
Why should only the humans be allowed the luxury?

With enough time Aziraphale would get there. And they would have all the time in existence, if they just kept this glorious, magnificent, terrible rock from being broken to pieces.

  


* * *

  


He snapped open the door to his flat and strolled in, trusting the angel to follow him.

It had been an odd drive home. A heavy silence had settled over them, solemn and comforting and almost as grounding as Aziraphale's soft hand on his skin.  
But now, back in London, the witch's last prophecy was lingering in the air and he knew they had to deal with it. Soon. With a ragged groan he drew a hand over his face. All he wanted was to sleep for another century.

Aziraphale sank down on his sofa, a smear of tarnished cream on sharp black. Exhaustion seemed to have drained some of his inherent propriety as he sat there unusually limp, head thrown back and a hand pressed against his eyes.  
He had always liked seeing the angel here. A flash of dissonant light and disorder in his clear-cut space. There was a low rumble and he felt a corner of his mouth quirk.

"You should eat something."

"I'm not sure we have time for that," Aziraphale muttered, eyes closed. 

He sauntered to where the angel was sitting and draped himself over the sofa. 

"You got into the habit of eating. Won't be any use while wanting food."

That gained him a reproachful huff but the fact that there was no denial was rather telling.

"We can order something in," he offered the same time as Aziraphale said: "How long do you think we have?"

He sighed and took off his glasses, tapping them idly against his lips while the angel's half-lidden gaze settled heavily on him.

"No clue," he admitted. "Downstairs isn't known for patience but they'll want to come up with some sort of plan first."

Aziraphale hummed and closed his eyes again. "Same for up there. I'd assume we have at least a few hours to get to the bottom of this."

He nodded even if the angel couldn't see it. 

"What would you do, if it weren't for them? If it was all over and we wouldn't have to worry about this." Aziraphale waved the little slip of paper.

He considered for a moment. What _would_ he do?  
Sleep, for sure. But first –  
"Take a bath. Some nice oils and a glass of ridiculous red." Exhaustion seemed to make them both uncommonly open he thought as he studied the soft smile his words cast onto the angel's lips.

"Then you'll be doing just that."

He raised a brow despite Aziraphale's eyes still being closed. He knew the angel did not need to see it to know his surprise. 

"Fine. But you'll order yourself something nice." A snap of fingers and he held a selection of menus – some of Aziraphale's favourite restaurants which were most definitely not in the habit of providing home delivery. They would tonight.

He stood up and deposed the papers on the angel's lap before marching towards the swinging door.  
"Payment's taken care of. Join me when it arrived, you know where the bathroom is."

  


***

  


Crowley's bathroom was rather nice, Aziraphale thought. He had only caught a short glance at it when given the tour during his first visit to the flat a few decades ago.  
It felt like centuries had passed since then.

Still, it was nice. Not his style, certainly, but the room temperature was perfect, the cushions he was settled on soft and the rim of the tub precisely the right height for him to lean his neck against.  
He took another spoonful of the indecently rich mousse au chocolat, closing his eyes as it melted on his tongue. The delicious food together with the Château Margaux 1900 he had spirited here from his stock and the lush scent of Crowley's bathwater made everything feel a bit woozy.  
He heard a faint splash behind him and turned his head. 

Crowley looked relaxed. More relaxed than he had seen him in a long time. Eyes closed and head resting against the wall behind the tub, one arm dangling towards the ground, long fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of wine.  
Aziraphale sighed, resenting in an odd way that they would have to get back to distressing topics so soon. He glanced at the piece of paper lying on the floor beside him, brushed over it with unsteady fingers. Against his back, the smooth side of the bathtub suddenly grew warmer and he flinched.

"Sorry." Crowley's voice was a low slur. "Water got a bit cold."

He huffed a chuckle and pressed his palm against the marble. It was strangely unnerving, the heat seeping from water through stone against his skin.

"Please, try not to boil yourself."

The corner of Crowley's mouth curled into the shadow of a smirk.

"Heat doesn't bother me."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't." He put his right hand on the rim and rested his chin on it while the fingers of his left dipped into the water. He pulled back instantly.

"That _is_ hot!"

"Mmm, nothing better for relaxing." 

He watched as Crowley wiggled his shoulders and submerged a bit deeper into the water.

"Guess you're preferring your water cold and pristine and consecrated."

He swallowed and felt his mouth contorting into a grimace as he was trying not to think about the disgusting smear on the floor that he had passed on his way through the flat. Something in his silence caught Crowley's attention, the demon opened his eyes to narrow slits, just enough to stare at him.

"I didn't mean – "

Aziraphale shook his head. "No, but you're right. You think that's what will be awaiting us?"

Crowley drew himself up a bit, water nearly splashing over the rim. "Could be." He was looking fully at Aziraphale now. "Last time I checked they still didn't have much imagination, my lot. And I don't expect yours 've gotten better at it either."

"No, not really." He confirmed. "You think they'll want us destroyed?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. Maybe they do follow my suggestion and take the humans as an example. Death penalty for treason – " Crowley's head tilted back to lean against the wall again.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the flippant tone but could not really disagree.  
She could make him fall, of course. Tear Her grace away from him and cast him out, but for what purpose? Hell would not accept him. He would just suffer the same punishment as Crowley were he to be thrown into the pit. And he didn't think Gabriel and the others would leave it to Hell to carry out their retribution.

"If She wanted you to fall, you'd have by now. She must know what happened, I doubt She'd wait."

He sighed. Although he knew it was not possible, it happened increasingly often that Crowley seemed to read his thoughts. Which reminded him…

"Sometimes I wonder what you can do."

"Huh?"

He placed his chin back on hands clasping the warm stone as he studied the even face of the demon.  
"You drove through Odegra, something that discorporated a Duke of Hell. You kept your car going all the way to Tadfield. And then you stopped time and brought Adam and me to another sphere. All of that in one day – sometimes I really wonder _what_ you can do."

He saw the thin lips curl, the wry twist of the expressive mouth. Crowley's eyes remained closed.

"You were a Power once, weren't you?"

Crowley wiggled his shoulders, an approximation of a shrug.

"I've been wondering..."

"Yes, so you've said." Serpentine eyes opened to glare at him. "Where exactly are you going with this?

"I just thought, it would be fitting, creating stars, that you were a Power back then."

Crowley gave a grunt that might be interpreted as affirmative if one decided to be gracious. Aziraphale could be very gracious. He also knew that they did not talk about this. They had never talked about who – or what – Crowley had been before his fall.  
He wondered if he should change the subject but then Crowley spoke.

"Many of those who fell were Powers."

"Were they?" Aziraphale leaned in, settled a bit more comfortably on the cushions as he studied the face in front of him. Crowley wasn't looking at him, he was staring up at the ceiling. 

"Yes. No surprise really."

Aziraphale gave a questioning hum. A prompt to continue.

"Give a bunch of people the power to destroy your enemies, then allow them to create things. To watch their creations grow and develop. And after a few centuries of that, it's back to mindlessly following orders. Didn't go over well with many of us."

"Artists do not good soldiers make," Aziraphale murmured and Crowley shot him a glance before he stared back up, as if he was seeing something beyond the dark paint of his ceiling.

"Yeah. So, many of those who fell were Powers. No surprise there."

"I can see that." Aziraphale nodded. "What I was surprised about is that you were a Power."

This time Crowley's eyes lingered on him, a glimmer of something questioning and challenging within them.

"You see – as I said – I wonder what you can do. I wonder about the things I know you can do." He looked down at his fingertips gliding over water, watched gentle ripples fanning out and disturbing the tranquil surface.  
"They told us in Heaven, that the higher the angel, the lower the fall. That with those of higher ranks there would be the most room for Hell's force. That's why Lucifer –"

"Why they rule." Crowley confirmed.

"So, seeing what you can do…"

There was a sigh, deep and heavy. "Angel, you must know by now that ranks don't really matter, right? So, I was a Power… I'd never have gone any further. Even before… before. I didn't really fit." Another wry grin. "And look at yourself. You were a Cherub once. Obviously have all the skill and ability necessary for the position. It isn't given to those who aren't able to fill the role."

"But I got demoted. For the sword thing." Aziraphale said calmly. It didn't sting anymore. It had barely stung back then, once he had realized that – 

"Yes, you got to be the Principality of Earth. So, which job did you prefer?"

He rested his cheek on his warm fingers, one hand still trailing through the water. "Don't say that, in all these millennia, you never told me that you _can_ in fact read my mind?"  
A smile ghosted across his lips at the chortled laughter he managed to coax from the demon.

"Nah, just know you by now. A little bit. Have met you once or twice."

He looked up and Crowley winked at him before growing serious again.

"But you get what I'm after. We're not always in the position most fitting to our talents. Or sometimes our abilities are suited for something that isn't right for us."

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. "But She – "

"Yes, yes." Crowley waved a hand. " She wouldn't appoint us to wrong positions. That's what you're thinking, right? Well, maybe She doesn't."

"But that means. The Fall…"

"Have you ever wondered why so many fell? Why She gave freedom to warriors and then tried to force them back into being obedient soldiers?"

"You mean She wanted you – some of the angels – to fall?"

"Balance." Crowley shrugged. "Good and evil. Can't have one without the other. And there had been talk about that new project for a while. Earth and humanity."

Aziraphale pondered this for a moment. It was possible, of course. Maybe it had been the Almighty's plan all along, all the way even before the first war.

"Anyway, how is that helping us with our current problem?"

"Mmm?" Aziraphale looked up and saw Crowley eyeing him. "Ah, yes, I thought it would be good to know. Our capabilities. To try and figure something out."

With a low hum, the demon settled back into the water. "You're the clever one here."

Aziraphale grimaced. He did not want to start a discussion about who was clever, not now. They had had it before. He knew he was intelligent, but –

"I wonder if it isn't cleverness we need, but creativity."

"Creativity." Crowley opened one eye at him.

"Yes, and that has always been one of your strengths. Creativity." He splayed his fingers against the glossy marble. "I'd never have thought of stopping time. I wouldn't have thought of running away as a possibility…"

"That wasn't creative. That was reckless."

"Maybe we'll need a bit of recklessness, too."

Crowley merely snorted at that and Aziraphale thought again of holy water and the stain on the floor. A blemish in the sleek, excessively stylish flat. A flat almost bare except for the lovely plants and the untoward amount of questionably appropriated artefacts.

"Talking of recklessness, I noticed your interesting choices for home decor have not changed. I mean, just your office - I thought you've gotten rid of _that_ garish thing ages ago."

_"They little know how dearly I abide that boast so vaine, under what torments inwardly I groane - while they adore me on the Throne of Hell."_

He could hear the smirk in the smooth voice and tutted. "Really, must you?"

"What, angel? I thought you found him entertaining?"

Aziraphale glared at the demon whose lips were drawn into an amused grin.

"If you must quote John's work, there are much nicer lines you could choose."

"Ah, like, _they, looking back, all the eastern side beheld of Paradise, so late their happy seat, waved over by that flaming brand, the gate - with dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms -_ "

"Really!" He glared at him now, but the foul thing still had his eyes closed in complete contentment. 

"Which lines would _you_ pick then?"

If asked later – and he would be asked many times, at first tentatively, then joyfully, but most often teasingly – he would always say that the next words which came out of his mouth had been brought there by influence.  
The dense air, the alcohol surging through his veins, the heady scent of pomegranate and cardamom and something luxuriantly woody which left his mind muddled… 

_"How can I live without thee, how forego, thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined - to live again in these wild woods forlorn?"_

Crowley's eyes flew open and he pushed forward. Water sloshed over the rim, seeping into Aziraphale's sleeves. A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, clenching, pressing down against hard stone. He belatedly realised that somewhere, behind it all, there had been the sound of glass shattering. 

"I'm sorry…" He stared at Crowley who was looking past him, eyes wide and wild, gazing at the opposite wall as if the answers to all his endless questions were scratched into the dusky wallpaper.  
"I'm…" Aziraphale started, his throat tight and dry.

"No –" Crowley breathed and pressed his wrist down even more. "Do you know how that goes on –" 

Aziraphale frowned for a moment, then understood. "Of course I do. _Should God create another Eve, and I another rib afford…"_

"No, not that." There was a determined urgency to the demon now. "Next verse. Towards the end of the next verse."

Aziraphale tried to concentrate, tried to remember. It got continuously more difficult with the painful pressure that had his fingers grow numb. He opened his mouth just as Crowley spoke.

_"The bond of nature draw me to my own, my own in thee, for what thou art is mine… "_

"What?"

Crowley finally turned his head to look at him and the sharp intensity in his eyes made Aziraphale's mind flare up. There was something there. In that phrase. And there had been something earlier… Something about heat. And pure water. And not being bothered by it.

"What…" he whispered.

"It could work." Crowley's voice was a harsh bite, so far removed from its usual glib sarcasm or agitated insistence. 

He swallowed, tried to ignore the creaking bones in his wrist. "It could _work_?" He sounded incredulous. "It could _destroy_ us. I didn't joke about exploding!"

"If we time it right – if we completely leave our corporation before the other takes over –"

"Crowley!" He felt the old tension rise inside of him. Taut and cloying and constricting. "We can't know if it works. Something like this has never been done before. Not that I know of –"

"Exactly!" Crowley's eyes were gleaming now, lips stretched into a frenzied grin. "Bet it has never been done before. They wouldn't dare. They'd never think of it. They _will_ never think of it."

"And with good reason!" He flexed his fingers on the rim, tips brushing against the cooling marble. The continuous, painful vice of Crowley's hand felt grounding. A dull, pulsating weight that captured his reeling mind and forced it back into his body.  
He blinked and looked into piercing amber eyes.

"It might work," he could not believe the words leaving his mouth. "But we can't be sure…"

"Recklessness, you said?" Crowley grinned. "And it would fit that." He nodded at the prophecy.

Aziraphale just stared at Crowley. At the face suddenly so alive. At burning eyes. He could not believe that he was actually considering this… But what choice did they have? If they didn't come up with something, they were as good as destroyed – or potentially worse. 

He did not have Crowley's imagination, neither did Heaven or Hell. But he would not allow for extinction and he would _not_ risk either side thinking of something even worse. Something uninspired and sordid and overstated.  
Maybe it really was their turn now. Their turn to come up with something creative and outrageous and daring. 

He took a deep breath and moved. Crowley seemed to sense the change in him, his grip loosening slightly, just enough for him to twist his wrist and grasp the slender hand. Just enough for Aziraphale to weave their fingers together.  
He smiled at the demon and tightened their hold.

  


* * *

  


This exit from Heaven had been much more comfortable than his last one, that was for sure.  
Crowley rolled the borrowed shoulders as he slouched on the bench, inhaling leisurely and relishing the saturated air. It tasted of fresh grass and sunlight and new beginnings.

There was a low buzz lingering in the humans surrounding him. As if they knew they had gotten another chance, had just escaped something tremendous. Adam had done his job well, he thought not for the first time. Hopefully the boy would keep to that 'no messing around' stint of his…

He smiled as he saw his corporation sauntering towards him. Aziraphale didn't do half bad a job at steering the lanky legs and hypermobile spine. It was a highly amusing and strangely endearing sight.  
It made him realize that he was probably sitting more comfortably than the body he was currently inhabiting had ever been arranged before. He _had_ tried to maintain at least some resemblance of Aziraphale's usual bearing up to now.  
As expected, his current position on the bench earned him a disapproving scowl.

"I do hope you have not completely undone my corporation's impeccable posture."

He grinned. Painfully wide. For a second he wondered how the expression might look on the angelic face.  
But he could not help it, did not want to. It was such an _Aziraphale_ thing to say as a greeting.  
They were both here. Still in existence, with their corporations seemingly in one piece. Everything felt possible now. There was nothing they couldn't do.  
Something welled up within him. Something scorching and floating that pressed exquisitely against his chest. 

  


*

  


They had gone to the Ritz, because of course they would. They had chatted and chattered, getting intoxicated more on elation and the exhilarating feeling of success than the splendid wine.

As the meal came to a close and coffee had been drunk, Aziraphale smiled and asked if he might accompany him to the bookshop. Said that he had wondered whether Crowley had noticed any changes in his stock and if he would show him.  
And he returned the smile and agreed, because of course he would.

Aziraphale practically _tittered_ at the new additions. "Whatever shall I do with these?"

"Could always sell them." Crowley smirked at the indulgent glare he was treated to. 

They settled into their respective seats and the angel dug out one of his special cognacs. Crowley decided on only sipping for now, allowing the smooth liquid to coat his lips, savouring the taste more than the alcohol. He did not want to be completely drunk just yet. It was too precious, this time together. He had never really understood how precious time could be, not until this supposed last week of their life.

There was a content hum from Aziraphale and he glanced over. He didn't think he'd ever seen the angel this much at ease while still somewhat sober. Maybe last night in his flat, right before he'd piled fake homedelivery menus on his lap.  
But that had been exhaustion – this was something else. It looked a lot like bliss. 

"Do you feel it?"

He blinked and was realising that Aziraphale was staring back at him, something delicate and searching in his gaze.

"Feel what?"

The angel swallowed and fiddled with his snifter. Strange, only a moment ago he had appeared so carefree. Aziraphale took a sip, followed by a deep breath.

"You were looking at me just now as if you felt it. I mean, this…" He waved about the room. "The feeling of contentment and security and…"

Crowley eyed him. They surely were not that beyond tipsy already, were they? Not in the stage of entertaining but rather pointless rambling. As fun as those nights were, he didn't want to be heading there just yet.

"What are you talking about?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Glanced at the door, then at the window, then at the trickle of light illuminating the worn books stashed on his desk. He cleared his throat again.

"You know. Humans have that concept of mind over matter…"

He raised an eyebrow. Pointedly.  
The angel's tendency for convoluted blathering was endearing, it really was, but right now he was more interested in figuring out the strange heaviness that had crept into the room.

"No, listen," Aziraphale flapped his free hand at him. "It has significance."

"So, mind over matter?" He prompted, hopeful to get him back on track.

Aziraphale was fidgeting in his seat. "The idea that the mind is stronger than the physical embodiment. That one can control the other."

"Yes. Have heard of that." He was becoming increasingly curious.

"And in a way that's exactly what we do, of course – but it isn't completely right, not even for us." Aziraphale glanced at him. "Our corporations do store some things - preserve certain abilities - even if the mind is not there."

"Obviously. That's why the body swap worked." He frowned. "Look, as fun as pseudo-physical… Pseudo-philosophical? Whatever. As fun as discussions like these are, I still don't get what you're actually on about."

Aziraphale sighed and put down his snifter, then shook his shoulders once, straightened and looked right at him. He wondered for a moment if he should have kept the sunglasses on. The stare was disconcertingly intense.

"They told us –" He cringed and swallowed. "Heaven told us that demons don't feel emotions."

It was Crowley's turn to stare now, he had not expected _that_. Whatever Aziraphale saw in his eyes, it got him into a hurry to continue.

"I know it isn't true, of course."

"Do you now?" He tilted his head and hoped his features appeared as even and smooth as he intended. Aziraphale just gave him a _look_ and he let a smirk settle into the corner of his mouth.  
The smile he received in return was much more unabashed. Full and warm and open. It was there and gone in a flash and Crowley felt a bone-deep urge to drag it back onto the angel's face, but Aziraphale had grown serious again.

"Anyway. I have been wondering about it. Why they would say that. Sure, it could simply be propaganda -" Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the snicker. The angel pronounced 'propaganda' with the same level of disgust that most humans felt when being thrown headfirst into a pit of rotting corpses. "- but that didn't seem right. Not completely. So, I've been wondering about what they meant by it. And in a way they were telling the truth, weren't they? Even if they got it completely wrong at the same time."

Aziraphale sounded thoughtful, studying Crowley as if he was the key to all the mysteries of the worlds. The look made him uncomfortable. He tried not to think about how much he liked it.

"Still not sure what you're after." His voice carried an unfamiliar timbre. Too rough and strained. 

"It's not at all about _having_ feelings, is it. It's about perceiving those of others. And I don't know if it's the same for all demons, of course, but you don't _feel_ the emotions of other creatures, not like angels do. You _sense_ them."

And suddenly he understood, gave a curt nod.

"Yes," Aziraphale nodded as well and reached for his glass. There was a slight tremor to his hand. "Yes. All those scents and tastes and colours and sounds - it was rather overwhelming, when I experienced it in your corporation." He raised the drink to his lips. "Was it the same for you? Feeling it as angels do…"

He considered the question while allowing himself to sink back into the despicably soft sofa. "Maybe not as overwhelming as it was for you. It's been quite a while, but I remember some of it. How it used to be."

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale looked pained.

"Don't be. It's fine." 

There had been a flash of remembrance. A memory of before. The recollection of a constant, intrinsic distance between himself and the creatures existing alongside him – the guard between an angel and the worlds surrounding them. He had remembered how it had been, when the capacity to feel others had required a conscious decision…

Being a demon wasn't like that. There was a never-ending surge of impressions and he had spent the first decades after the fall learning how to fend it off else it would devour him entirely.  
He had gotten used to controlling the physical perception of emotions, taught himself to filter them, arrange them, restrict them. Entering Aziraphale's corporation had been interesting. Too concentrated on the switch his focus had slipped and as soon as he had taken over the angel's body and its abilities, emotions were rushing through him and he had _felt_ them as if they were his own.  
Yes, Aziraphale was right, it had been overwhelming. Even if it had only lasted for an instant before his shield had been back in place.

He suddenly realised that he was silently staring at Aziraphale and made himself blink.  
"You took down your guard? When we swapped?"

"Not at first." Aziraphale's fingers were plucking at the seams of his waistcoat, his eyes darting back and forth between him and random points in the room.

"Out with it, angel."

"I was just so curious!" Aziraphale's composure took on a distressed air. "After having settled into your body, I couldn't help myself. I wasn't even sure if it would work, but it felt like the only chance I'd ever get to maybe know how it is for you…"

Crowley could relate to that. Of course he could. "I'd never hold your curiosity against you."

Aziraphale stared at him, guilt plain on his face. "I shouldn't have done it. Not without asking you. It was an unwarranted invasion."

"'Zira," he sighed and hoped his voice sounded reassuring. "When we switched, my shields were down. It's natural for demons. So yes, for a moment I could feel it again, the way angels do. It's only fair you should experience the same." He shrugged. "The demon version, that is. I don't mind. Really, it's fine."

"It _was_ overwhelming." Aziraphale repeated and took another sip. His shoulders relaxed with the tiniest movement and Crowley was fiercely pleased that he could spot it. That he recognised those infinitesimal gestures and knew exactly what they meant.

"It can be that, if I don't control it." Crowley agreed. "Same for you, when you allow it all in." 

"Fascinating." Aziraphale said, still staring at him with wide eyes.

"'s just what we are."

"Yes, it is. It's _what_ we are." Aziraphale smiled at him. It could have been blinding. "Are you warding yourself right now?"

"Yep. Usually do." The 'when I'm around you' was left unsaid but he was sure Aziraphale heard it all the same. 

Something new was sneaking into the angel's smile, something sidling towards coyness and insinuation. "Would you lower your shields? For me?"

He stared for a moment, not sure what to answer to that. "Would you?" Came out of his mouth before his brain caught up to what was happening.

"I have." Aziraphale's smile didn't waver. It was smaller now, gentler, and it made something clench and shatter and glisten along his spine.

He swallowed and closed his eyes and for the first time in almost two centuries, he allowed himself to sense Aziraphale's feelings.

A snare was sliding up his limbs, tightening against his skin. That little tinkle that was Aziraphale was chiming for him now – for _him_ – and it glittered along the borders of his inner vision with a searing flicker. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling hints of soft smoke and the air before a storm. The taste of berries and steel tickled the back of his throat, rich and heavy – and there, underneath it all, lingered an almost hidden trace of honey…  
He opened his eyes to look at the angel. 

A slight flush was dusting Aziraphale's cheeks but the soft smile was still there.  
"I think, maybe… I mean – we don't really need to bother anymore, do we?" He waved vaguely. "With the shielding and guarding and all that. When it comes to us…" 

Crowley blinked. He couldn't remember ever having heard Aziraphale sounding _hoarse_. 

"Only if that would be alright with you, of course." The angel cleared his throat and looked away.

He stood up and stalked towards him, his unruly legs moving on their own accord. Through the haze in his mind he wondered about the expression on his face. Whatever it was, he needed to remember it. Save it. Make sure to keep it for the millennia to come.  
Because however he looked like in this moment, it made Aziraphale's eyes lighten up in a way he had never seen before.

And that, too, was an expression he would want to keep for all eternity. Hoard it and savour it and lock it away somewhere private. Somewhere close. He took the hand that was reaching out for him and smiled as it drew him into arms that had been waiting for him for centuries. Waiting and longing with a jaded, sombre ache.

*  
  
_When I need it  
the seas deny me water  
when I need it  
Heaven may forsake me  
and shall the plagues of Egypt fall  
upon me if I forget you_  
Tarantos de Manuel Torre  
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**Author's Note:**

>   
>  1) Explanation for the Spanish expressions in this paragraph:  
> The _Semana Santa_ is the week leading up to Easter and in Andalusia is often celebrated with processions, during which _pasos_ (religious floats) are carried through the streets by _costaleros_.  
> The _Madrugá_ (dawn) is the high point of the processions, starting a little after midnight of Good Friday.  
> Along the march route of the processions, _saetas_ (flamenco-style religious songs) might be offered by singers up on balconies.  
> Back


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